


lips pressed close to mine (true blue)

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Ghosts, Gratuitous Smut, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miscommunication, There Was Only One Bed (tm), Valentine's Day, no homo i mean yes homo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: Wanted: Caretakers for the Waterfall Lodge (must be a couple).Starts: February 1stPerfect for sweethearts: snowy location, seclusion, and best of all, you’re paid for it!Position can be permanent.Lodge may or may not be haunted.
Relationships: Andy Hurley/Joe Trohman, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 39
Kudos: 90
Collections: Be My Peterick Valentine 2020





	lips pressed close to mine (true blue)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/gifts).



> what have i DONE y'all. here, have this valentine's day gift since this is the first valentine's day i've liked lol. title from g.i.n.a.s.f.s.
> 
> (librarian!patrick will be back next week!)

_Wanted: Caretakers for the Waterfall Lodge (must be a couple)._

_Starts: February 1st_

_Perfect for sweethearts: snowy location, seclusion, and best of all, you’re paid for it!_

_Position can be permanent._

_Lodge may or may not be haunted._

Patrick stared at the ad. The ad stared back. The words didn’t change. Patrick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Surely weeks of job hunting had caused him to hallucinate. He should take a break. This was ridiculous. He honestly did not just see an ad for a job that one, was apparently exclusive to couples, two, included housing, and three, may or may not be haunted. Which. Patrick wasn’t buying it. Just come out and say if there are ghosts, don’t chickenshit around. 

Patrick digressed. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and took a deep breath, feeling his vertebrae crack before exhaling and looking back down at his iPad, where the offending ad still waited. 

_Salary: $3000/month stipend plus room and board_

Three _thousand_ a month? Plus room and board? Patrick would be able to _leave this shithole_ and be _paid_ to live in seclusion? It sounded too good to be true.

_Requirements: Must be two people, must be a couple. Must be willing to remain on call 24/7 (though leaving one at a time for groceries, etc is allowed) Prefer quiet residents. Must have transportation._

Patrick considered. He was willing to be on call 24/7. He was quiet. He had transportation, if his shitty old van his mom gave him for his college graduation counted. The only thing he _didn’t_ have was the relationship, but he could probably ask someone. Pete, for example. Patrick knew for a fact that Pete had not found a job with his shitty PoliSci degree and was living at home just like Patrick had been for the past six months. Pete would probably leap at the chance to split $3000 a month with Patrick for free rent. Pete would have no problem pretending to be in a relationship, even with another dude, and most importantly would probably not mind faking a relationship with _Patrick_.

A voice that sounded very much like Travie’s spoke up from the back of his mind, asking if it was _really_ a good idea to go live in the mountains with someone he decidedly was still crushing hard on, all while pretending to date him, but Patrick was really good at ignoring advice if he wanted to, so there. Shut up, Travie. 

_Interested? Please give us a call!_

Patrick closed his eyes. 

He reached for the phone. 

\----

“Let me get this straight,” Pete said slowly. Patrick winced. This wasn’t starting out well. “You found a job, with good pay, that includes housing, and you _don’t_ think it’s too good to be true?”

“Yes?” Patrick guessed. Pete made a strangled noise. Patrick couldn’t decide if it was encouraging or not. 

“Listen,” Pete said. Patrick winced again. “I’m not trying to be mean. But do you _really_ think this job is legit? I mean, come on. A cabin, in the mountains? Alone? Do you not see the serial killer signs?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Patrick protested. “Plus, if it is serial killer shit, we don’t have to pay our student loans back if we’re dead, so.”

“Yeah, but we’d be dead,” Pete said, before heaving a sigh. “Fine. Fine! I’m not saying I’ll do it, but we can go check it out or whatever. You sure they have two openings?”

“About that,” Patrick said. Pete narrowed his eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Pete demanded. “You have no idea what I’m thinking. I could be thinking of the complete lyrics to Mambo No. 5 for all you know.”

“Your head is full of cotton candy and pizza,” Patrick said. Pete ignored him. “But seriously. It’s not, like, bad.”

“Then what is it?” Pete asked. “You’re acting shifty. Did you rob a bank? Is this an elaborate cover for you hiding out from the cops?”

“Have you been drinking?” Patrick asked. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

“Just spit it out,” Pete said. 

“It’s a job for couples,” Patrick said quickly, almost before Pete had finished speaking. Pete looked incredulous, one eyebrow raised, looking at Patrick like Patrick had been speaking a foreign language and Pete couldn’t understand a word he’d said.

“You’re shitting me,” was what he finally managed to say, eyebrow raising further, nearly disappearing into Pete’s greasy hair. Patrick didn’t said anything. Pete’s eyebrow did disappear. “You’re not shitting me. Oh. Okay. This just got weirder.”

“Look,” Patrick began, but Pete steamrolled over him. 

“So you saw an ad for a job,” he said, ticking things off on his fingers like a disappointed parent listing ways Patrick had failed. “A job that already, frankly, seems like a scam _at best_ , and you’re telling me that it’s specifically a job for couples and you _aren’t_ suspicious as hell?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. Pete groaned, rolling his head back to stare at the sky like he wanted to demand a refund on his best friend from God directly. “It’s 3,000 a month. And we don’t have to pay rent.”

“That’s because once we get there, we’ll be chopped up and made into stew,” Pete said. 

“You’re not listening,” Patrick retorted. 

“Oh, I’m listening,” Pete said. “You just don’t care that this lodge is probably run by serial killers.”

“It has a website,” Patrick argued. 

“Ah, yes,” Pete said, nodding seriously. “A website. Something super hard to get and definitely proof of legitimacy.”

“Do you want to check it out or not?” Patrick asked, a little exasperated. “I know your mom is on your case about a job, dude.”

“I don’t think she wants me murdered,” Pete said, sounding slightly wounded. “Do you think my mom wants me murdered?”

“Do you think _I_ want you murdered?” Patrick demanded. “I’m offended.”

“Okay,” Pete sighed. “ _Okay_ , we can go check out your little murder village. If I die, I will fucking haunt you forever.”

“What if I die too?” Patrick asked. 

“I’ll haunt you from the fucking afterlife,” Pete groused. “Let’s go.” 

——

“Look!” Patrick said with all the false brightness he could muster. “It’s pretty!”

Pete was giving Patrick some sort of look out of the corner of his eye, but Patrick was a very responsible driver and was, thus, focused on the road ahead only. 

Okay, Patrick had to admit, first impressions could be tough. And this place wasn’t _exactly_ picture-perfect and all that, but it seemed perfectly serviceable to Patrick, and besides, maybe it looked better on the inside. 

“We are going to die here,” Pete said under his breath mournfully. Patrick winced. 

“Well,” he said, pulling into a parking space labeled _check-ins only_. “We have a getaway car.”

“This is not a car,” Pete said, opening his door. As if to illustrate Pete’s point, the door squealed horribly and Patrick suppressed another wince. “This is a piece of junk with a steering wheel. The moment we need a quick getaway it will fail us and we will be sliced up by the fucking Illinois Chainsaw Murderer.”

“Do you think you might be slightly over exaggerating this?” Patrick asked. Pete shook his head emphatically. 

“I do not,” he said. “If anything, I am exaggerating this just enough. _You_ are _under_ exaggerating this.”

“Hello!” someone called, and both Pete and Patrick jumped, turning around with trepidation. The speaker waved, gesturing them closer. Patrick swallowed, and, aware of Pete’s death stare at him, started walking forward. 

“You must be that young man interested in the caretaking position,” the speaker said. Upon getting closer, Patrick could see bright tattoos all over the man, including across his chest and down his torso. The man was leaning on a snow shovel, wearing basketball shorts, flip flops, and no shirt. 

Patrick filled in Pete’s unsaid rant in his head all by himself. 

“That’s me!” Patrick said, with the amount of fake cheer he usually reserved for saying hi to his super racist great-grandma in a home just outside Glendale. The tattooed and underdressed man raised one eyebrow. Patrick tried not to clutch his coat around himself. “Uh, well, that’s us, rather.”

The tattooed man’s gaze slipped from Patrick to Pete, expression appraising, uncomfortably serious for a moment before slipping into a grin. 

“Well, you two make a handsome couple,” he said, and that phrasing did not line up with his appearance at all, but Patrick was running out of room in his head to worry about things right now. “I’m Andrew, Andy for short. I own this place with my husband, who’s somewhere around here. Let’s step inside the lobby, why don’t we, and we can discuss the position?”

Patrick was beginning to regret answering the ad, but they’d come this far and if he was getting murdered he at least wanted to be murdered inside out of the cold. 

The blast of heated air that smacked Patrick in the face when the door was opened made him blink rapidly for a moment until his eyes stopped being dry and he was able to focus on the room around him. It was...honestly not what Patrick was expecting. Not that Patrick had a clear idea of what he was expecting, but for some reason, the lobby was even weirder than the tattooed and underdressed man--Andy, Patrick remembered--seemed. 

Maybe Patrick was overthinking this. 

He sat on the chairs Andy gestured to, Pete following, and tried not to squirm under Andy’s watchful gaze. Beside him, Pete was loudly thinking disparaging things about Patrick, which was lovely. Not that Pete would ever even consider dating Patrick in general, but dragging him to the mountains to possibly be murdered was definitely not helping Patrick’s nonexistent chances. 

He didn’t really want to look too closely at the lobby itself, because just the side glances he was giving it were terrifying, but his attention was eventually drawn to them anyway. The walls were covered in ancient looking paintings, framed in clashing shades of wood, most hung crookedly. The eyes of the subjects of the paintings seemed to bore into Patrick, and he started to sweat a little. 

The rug beneath them looked to be about one hundred years old, worn and threadbare in places, a random assortment of throw rugs spread sporadically throughout the room, clearly covering up the worst parts. A fire was going in a fireplace that looked like it belonged in the castle of a vindictive king, and the low ceiling was lit by several mismatched lamps. Spiderwebs hung in the corners, and the whole thing was decorated with cutout hearts of varying shapes and shades of red and pink. 

A garland of those hearts criss-crossed the ceiling and were strung along the wide desk in the corner. The back of an ancient looking computer was covered with hearts, too, messily taped on. Patrick thought he saw some glitter on a few. Patrick thought he might be hallucinating.

“So,” Andy said, clapping his hands together. It was a miracle Patrick didn’t jump. “What makes you interested in this position? I have to admit, you’re younger than my husband and I anticipated.”

“Well,” Patrick said, trying to sound normal. He wasn’t sure it was working. “Pete and I have been looking for jobs for a while but nothing interested us until we saw this listing.”

“Is this place really haunted?” Pete blurted out, like he’d been dying to ask that the entire time. He probably had. Seemed like a very _Pete_ thing to do. 

Andy cracked the ghost (Patrick laughed a little hysterically in his head) of a smile and inclined his head. 

“Of course not,” he said. Patrick kind of doubted it was the truth. “Just a bit of humor in our ad.”

“Ah,” Pete said uncomfortably, then fell silent. 

Patrick cleared his throat. 

“Anyway, we saw your listing and we were interested,” he said. “So here we are.”

“Here you are indeed,” Andy said thoughtfully. “I’ll admit, your resumes leave a lot to be desired but I must confess no other applicants have excited me quite like you.”

Patrick wondered what exactly _excited_ Andy about them, considering they spent all of ten minutes in each other’s company, but he kept his mouth shut. Andy didn’t seem to notice either Patrick or Pete’s discomfort. Patrick decided the jury was out on if that was a good thing or not. 

“Well, let me show you around,” Andy said, and Patrick hoped that wasn’t a euphemism for anything horrible. “And you can see if this is something you’d be up for. Sound good?”

“Sure!” Patrick said, aiming for enthusiasm but coming out strained. Andy didn’t notice that, either, or at least he said nothing, which was good. Patrick stood, grabbing Pete’s wrist and dragging him up with him because Patrick would not put it past Pete to refuse to come and Patrick was not about to be murdered by himself. He mostly imagined the glare he was getting in response. 

Andy pushed open the lobby door and gestured. Patrick tried to convince himself that the sinister smile he was wearing was a figment of Patrick’s imagination. 

\----

After what felt like an endless trek up a winding gravel road, the three wound up on level ground, just inside the main forest. In front of them lay a row of cabins, all identical, side by side. A few had lights on, and Patrick assumed those were occupied. 

In all fairness, it really was a lot better up here than in the lobby. Patrick figured this part of the lodge was the selling point, because he had to admit, it was very cozy and sweet looking, especially with the light snowfall through the trees and the clean wood of the cabins. Each cabin had a tiny little porch with a lantern, and the doors were adorned with heart-shaped wreaths, continuing the decor from the lobby, but a lot less creepily.

Patrick drew his coat in a little tighter all the same. 

“So the Lodge has sixteen cabins,” Andy said. He was still in flipflops and bare-chested, which made Patrick uncomfortable. “The caretaker’s cabin is down at the end, but it’s pretty much identical to the rest. They all have attached bathrooms, no hiking out into the forest for our guests. There might be serial killers.”

Andy laughed like that last line was a joke, and that made it almost _worse_. Patrick resisted a shudder, stepping a little closer to Pete. Just for warmth. He wasn’t scared. 

“Andy, are you fucking with the applicants again?”

The sudden interruption of a third voice damn near made Patrick piss his pants, which would not be comfortable in freezing weather. He was lucky he didn’t faint, and from the near-bruising grip Pete had on him when he grabbed him from fright, Pete wasn’t better off. As one, they slowly turned to face whoever had spoken. Patrick was pretty sure he was nailing his deer-in-the-headlights impression. 

‘Whoever had spoken’ turned out to be a dude slightly taller than Andy, with thick curly hair pulled back in a loose bun. It sort of reminded Patrick of Pete’s hair, when he didn’t abuse it with a flatiron and let it grow out. Don’t get Patrick wrong, he liked the bleached look Pete had going on right now. It complemented his skin perfectly. That wasn’t the point. 

“Hi,” Curly said, extending a hand. “My name’s Joe, I’m Andy’s husband. You must be the applicants that called the other day.”

“Yes,” Patrick said uncertainly, shaking Joe’s offered hand. “I’m Patrick. This is Pete.”

“Boyfriend? Husband?” Joe asked, and Pete spoke up as he shook Joe’s hand, too. 

“Boyfriends,” he said, and Patrick _on God_ could not help the little thrill that went through him. It wasn’t real. They were pretending for money. They were feelings hookers. Relationship gigolos. The list went on.

“Awesome,” Joe said. He at least was talking more like a real human being in their mid-40s (Patrick was bad at ages). He was also dressed appropriately for the weather. Patrick was okay with Joe being around. “Don’t mind my husband. He’s a prankster. It’s his litmus test.”

“Litmus test?” Pete asked, and Andy cracked a genuine looking grin. 

“Oh yeah,” he said, and, thankfully, that weird, creepy tone he had was gone. “Usually people bail by now. Only a handful made it up here.”

“Uh,” Patrick said, not sure if that was a good thing. “So you’re not about to kill us?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Andy said. “Too much paperwork.”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Joe said in exasperation. “Here I am trying to convince two applicants that you’re not a psychopath and you undermine me at every turn.”

“I can’t change who I am, baby,” Andy said. “Also, I’m cold.”

“Yes, you moron,” Joe said, rolling his eyes. “I thought you would be. I got clothes in the truck, beat it. I’ll take it from here.”

Andy stuck his tongue out at Joe but left, ostensibly toward the aforementioned truck, and by the time he did, Patrick was feeling considerably more relaxed. 

“So are there ghosts?” Pete asked, like it was all he cared about. It probably was. Joe laughed. 

“I dunno, dude,” he said. “It depends on if you believe in them, I guess. Whatever makes it more fun.”

“Fun?” Pete asked, sounding confused. Joe nodded. 

“I mean,” he said. “Personally, I think we offer a sweet deal. And during the season, we can usually find someone. You know, in the summer and whatnot. But by the time the offseason rolls around they get lonely up here by themselves.”

“That’s why you asked for a couple,” Patrick realized. Joe nodded again, rubbing the back of his neck with his gloved hand. 

“It’s kind of the offseason now,” he said. “I mean, a couple cabins are filled, but in the season, we have a waitlist. So I’ll be honest, it’s kind of slow. But I promise we’re not creepy murderers, even though Andy was trying his best to freak you out.”

“Can I ask a question?” Patrick asked. He didn’t even wait for Joe’s response before steamrolling on: “So like. I don’t know. I expected the owners to be really old and not up for taking care of the place themselves. Can I ask why you can’t do it?”

“Don’t be rude,” Pete muttered, as if he ever had the moral high ground on social niceties. He wore a shirt that said _suck my richard_ to their college graduation. Pete did not get to call Patrick rude. 

“Nah, it’s okay,” Joe said, and he sounded sincere. “I get it. We’re two middle aged guys, why don’t we do it. Short answer, we’re too busy. Long answer, this is only one of the thirteen properties my dad left me, and we have to check in on every one, so staying is not feasible.”

“See?” Pete said. 

“ _You_ were the one worrying about getting murdered five seconds ago,” Patrick muttered back darkly. 

Joe was watching them with undisguised amusement, and he exchanged a look beyond Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick heard footsteps and glanced over to see Andy returning, actually dressed this time. 

“Young love,” Joe said wistfully to Andy. Andy rolled his eyes. 

“Well, you’re stuck with old, decrepit me,” he said, then jerked his head at Pete and Patrick. “Let us show you to the caretaker’s cabin and we can talk more out of the cold.”

“You wouldn’t be cold if you were dressed right,” Joe said. 

“Thanks, mom,” Andy said snidely, and Patrick looked at Pete for a long moment before Pete shrugged and they followed Joe and Andy, who were still bickering, down the road. 

\----

Andy and Joe were saying important things. Patrick was _certain_ they were saying very important things, and Patrick should be listening because these important things were important. He could tell because Pete appeared to be actually listening, which meant what he was hearing was _important_ but Patrick could not take his eyes off the bed. 

The singular bed. 

Well, Patrick didn’t know what he expected, Joe and Andy asked for a couple and everyone before them had been alone, but for some reason knowing intellectually that they would be sharing a bed was very different than actually looking at the bed they would be sharing. It looked small, for a shared bed that was. And the cabin was kind of cold. It wasn’t completely ridiculous to assume they’d be sleeping pretty close to each other. Maybe even touching each other. And if they get cold in the night, they might even press closer together. Not cuddling, because they weren’t dating. And not on purpose, either, just a biological response to seek heat in the cold. 

Patrick was willing to bet he and Pete fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle, and that given the chance, they’d wind up tangled together quite comfortably, and maybe, in the early mornings, waking up kind of sleepy and pressed together from head to toe--

“So that’s about it,” Joe said, and Patrick nearly fell off the chair. Pete looked at him a little oddly, but neither Joe nor Andy seemed to have noticed his over the top reaction. Which was probably good. Patrick was pretty sure he wanted this job. For real. For the _money_. Not because of the whole one-bed-fake-relationship thing, which wasn’t going to backfire in the _slightest_.

“Thank you so much,” Pete said, shooting Patrick another suspicious look. “Will you call us with a decision?”

A decision? A decision of what? Patrick’s brain was the consistency of runny oatmeal and about as useful in forming coherent thought. He stared blankly at the room in general and wondered how he’d gotten here. 

Well not here. He drove here. He remembered that part. He meant here in the sense of faking a relationship with someone he was pretty sure he was mostly in love with still, despite the annoying fact of Pete being _heterosexual_. How had he managed to muddle his way into a situation in which he would be sharing a bed that looked smaller by the moment with someone he wanted to ride until he forgot his own name, all while living in total isolation for the foreseeable future? What, exactly, had he been thinking?

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Joe laughed, and Patrick was snapped back to reality with the same unpleasant sensation as snapping a rubber band on his wrist. Andy and Joe exchanged a look in which they apparently had an entire conversation solely through their expressions before they faced Pete and Patrick again. 

“We definitely want to offer you the job,” Andy said. “You survived me--”

“It’s not like you’re actually that scary,” Joe muttered, but Andy cheerfully ignored him. 

“--so I think our old haunted lodge shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

“Would you stop calling it haunted?” Joe asked in exasperation. “You’re going to scare them away.”

“We got the job?” Pete said uncertainly, and Joe beamed and nodded. Pete’s expression, when he looked over at Patrick, was ecstatic, which, fuck. When had Pete gotten so excited about this bullshit? And, more importantly, _what had Patrick been thinking?_

“You can start as soon as you want,” Andy said. He stretched, tattooed arms impossibly long, and sighed as his back cracked audibly. “I know the ad says February first but you can start tomorrow if you like.”

“And stay as long as you like,” Joe piped up, then winced. “Not that we want to sound desperate.”

“That ship has sailed,” Andy muttered, rolling his eyes. He stood, Pete following, and, belatedly, Patrick staggered to his feet as well, shaking the hand Andy extended, feeling numb. “Welcome aboard, Pete and Patrick.”

“Thank you,” Pete said, and Patrick felt a little like panicking.

\---

“Might I remind you that this was _your_ idea?” Pete, asked, sounding remarkably patient considering he had just endured Patrick’s worse-than-usual, panicked driving and lengthy monologue about ghosts and bears in the woods that wanted to kill them. “Also, I don’t think there are bears in Illinois.”

“Yes there are,” Patrick said, drifting into the next lane and jerking the steering wheel to correct himself. “Black bears. I saw a news clip. That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” Pete asked, pulling out his phone. “Also, I’m Gonna google the bear thing.”

“The point is that this is a stupid idea,” Patrick huffed. The turn off for the lodge was approaching, foreboding in the quickly growing darkness, and Patrick felt a shiver go through him. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Free place to live and money,” Pete said, staring at his phone. After a moment, he thrust his fist in the air, startling Patrick and causing him to jerk the wheel again. “Ha! No bears in Illinois. Patrick, you are going almost ninety miles an hour.”

“I am not,” Patrick muttered, taking his foot off the accelerator and tapping the brakes as subtly as he could. It didn’t work, according to the look Pete gave him. He signaled to get into the exit lane. “I’m just saying--”

“Yes, I’ve heard you,” Pete groaned. “Bad idea, murdered in our sleep, blah blah blah. You should have thought about that before now because now I’m totally into the idea of peace and quiet and easy money.”

“I don’t think it’ll be easy,” Patrick said. “We’re probably gonna have to, like. Repair stuff.”

The image of Pete in a flannel shirt, sweating a little as his muscles threatened to bulge right through, swinging an axe or some shit, made Patrick flush, heat spreading from his cheeks to his toes, like he was a middle aged woman who’d hit menopause. He pulled into the same parking lot and put the van in park, looking at Pete uncertainly. Pete sighed. 

“Look,” he said. “Nothing is going to happen. And if it does happen, I’ll protect you. I’ll be your knight in shining armor or whatever. No homo.”

_Yes homo, please homo_ Patrick thought before he could help himself. He cleared his throat and shifted his shoulders, glad he’d at least managed to keep his mouth shut. 

Pete had hopped out of the van and was grabbing his two duffle bags, swinging them dangerously hard as he tried to carry both at once. A losing effort, really, especially since Patrick knew how many shoes were in Pete’s bag.

“Maybe we could make two trips,” he said dryly. Pete huffed for breath, cheeks a little pink from exertion, and shook his head. 

“I’m fine,” he said, clearly lying. Patrick opened his mouth to call him on it when he was interrupted. 

“Hey guys!” Andy called. Patrick turned to see him--dressed appropriately this time--waving from outside the lobby. He was standing next to a golf cart that Patrick really hoped he was going to use to get them up to their cabin. “Come put your stuff here, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Thanks so much,” Patrick called back, relieved. He grabbed his bags and hustled them over, returning to grab one of Pete’s bags off him with an eyeroll. “You didn’t need fifteen pairs of shoes.”

“You never know,” Pete said, panting. Patrick rolled his eyes again and shut the door, locking the van and making his way back to Andy and the cart. 

“We appreciate it,” he said. Andy shrugged. 

“We appreciate you,” he said. “Let’s get you settled in before we give you a little orientation.”

It felt like Patrick blinked and they were up the mountain, dragging their stuff into the cabin. It still had one bed, and it somehow looked smaller than before. Patrick was fairly sure it was his imagination and not, like, a magic bed that knew his secret desires. 

Maybe he was losing it. He wouldn’t really be surprised. 

“There’s supposed to be heavy snow tonight,” Andy said. “So we wanna get you all set up as quickly as possible so we can make it to the other properties. Sorry to abandon you on your first day, but we’re currently empty, so it should be an easy start.”

“Well, now that you’ve said it it won’t be,” Pete joked, and Andy laughed. 

“Fair point,” he said. “Heavy snows are unfortunately common this time of year. It’s never anything serious, but I will warn you that at first, the quiet might be unnerving.”

“For sure,” Patrick said. “But Pete is here, so it won’t actually be quiet.”

“Ouch,” Pete said. Patrick’s heart skipped a beat for absolutely no reason at all. “So what kinds of duties will we have?”

“We have a maid, but if she can’t get up the mountain, you’re gonna have to do some light cleaning if we sell a room,” Andy said. “I’ll show you where all the stuff is, don’t worry. We don’t offer meals during the winter, but every cabin has a kitchenette like yours.”

Andy indicated theirs, which Patrick hadn’t even noticed. To be honest, he was having a hard time noticing anything beyond the singular bed. 

“So testing smoke detectors once a week is a must,” Andy said. “Up here in the cold, they malfunction a lot. They might go off for no reason. Just go turn it off.”

“Right,” Patrick said. There was no such thing as ghosts. Just...smoke detectors that set themselves off. Totally normal. Why was he here again?

“That’s about it,” Andy said. Patrick somehow doubted he’d absorbed anything at all, but he kept his mouth shut. For safety. Who’s safety was up for debate, but whatever. “Any questions?”

_Yeah_ , Patrick thought. _Did you switch out the bed for a smaller one or am I having a desire-filled hallucination?_

“Nope,” Pete said. “Thanks for everything.”

“No problem,” Andy said. “I left paperwork for you in the lobby. It has our numbers on it. And other stuff you might need. It’s gonna be fine.”

Patrick seriously doubted he was going to be _fine_ sleeping mere feet from his gigantic crush, but he couldn’t very well say that, could he? He didn’t say anything, just nodded and shook Andy’s offered hand and asked God once again exactly what the fuck he had been thinking. 

\----

“You’re acting weird,” Pete said suspiciously. Patrick froze, a t-shirt in his hand, the drawer he’d claimed open and ready to be loaded. He glanced down at it. It was a perfectly serviceable striped shirt. He looked at the drawer. Three neatly folded shirts were waiting. He looked at Pete. He looked skeptical. 

“I’m not acting weird,” Patrick said defensively, before carefully placing the striped shirt in the drawer. “I’m not acting weird at all. You’re acting weird. What’s wrong with you?”

“Wow,” Pete said dryly. “Defensive much?”

“Who, me?” Patrick said, nearly wincing at the way the words came out. Pete raised an eyebrow, so Patrick rushed to bullshit an explanation. “It’s just weird.”

“What’s weird?” Pete asked. “The cabin? The snow? You? One of those is true, you’ll never guess which.”

“You sound like a walking clickbait article,” Patrick complained, before picking up another shirt and sighing. “Just the situation. It’s a little strange. But I’m not acting weird.”

“You’re putting your clothes in the drawer like they’re your finest linens,” Pete said. “What happened to just shoving everything in and forcing it closed?”

“I never did that,” Patrick lied. 

“You definitely did that,” Pete countered, and, as if to illustrate, fought with his own drawer until it closed over the lump of clothes with a snap. “Come on, what gives? Is it the bed? Are you secretly homophobic?”

“I’m gay,” Patrick pointed out. “I wouldn’t be the secret homophobe here.”

“Because I would be?” Pete said, outraged. Patrick raised an eyebrow. “I’m definitely into guys. I told you that.”

“You told me you were gay above the waist,” Patrick said skeptically. “You said you liked men aesthetically but couldn’t give up tits. If you were actually coming out to me I would have thought you’d spare me, your gay best friend, more serious discussion.”

“I’d definitely suck a dick,” Pete said thoughtfully. Patrick choked on his spit, cheeks going red. He frantically thought to himself— _don’t think about it, don’t think about it, oh fuck_.

He was definitely thinking about it. He shut his eyes tight and took a deep breath. Pete didn’t get the message that dropping shit like that would upheave Patrick’s life. 

“I’d probably do anal,” he continued, and Patrick made a strangled noise, not entirely sure he could form coherent sentences. He dumped the rest of his t-shirts into the drawer and shut it hastily, like that would shut Pete up at all. His face was so hot it rivaled the Sun. He _hated his life_.

“Please stop talking,” he begged. Pete was smirking. That _asshole_. “Listen, I’m not acting _weird_. I’m just nervous.”

“About what?” Pete asked incredulously. “Look, we have the world’s easiest job and amazing pay, just stop being so clenched up that you’re making pearls, dude.”

“I literally hate you,” Patrick said, and Pete slapped him on the back.

“Hurry up, I want to go down to the lobby before the snow gets terrible,” he said, and Patrick exhaled slowly, hoping the burning in his cheeks and ears would die down a little. He looked down at his bag, at the toiletries bag, deodorant, and _dildo_ , what was he _thinking_ , and wondered when, exactly he’s stroked out and brought this job up to begin with. 

——

“Oh, God,” Pete groaned. “I am so glad to be in the cabin.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go down to the lobby before the storm,” Patrick pointed out darkly. He wiggled his toes in his boots--no dice. He couldn’t feel them. Or his fingers. Or his _dick_ , which was obviously the most important part here. He shot Pete a glare for good measure. Pete didn’t see, already stripping out of his snow-wet clothes, tanned, tattooed skin nearly glowing in the lamplight. He was casting a shadow on the wood wall thanks to the awkward placement of the lamps, and Christ, even his shadow was sexy. 

It was official. Patrick was really losing it. He’d die and live in peace with his frostbitten dick. 

“We do have a job,” Pete said. His voice was muffled as he pulled on a ridiculous plaid sweatshirt, messing up his hair in the process, although, really, the snow had done most of the work. The careful styling was nearly ruined, previously straight strands curling up and hanging in his eyes. It was a great metaphor for Pete, especially since he’d essentially just told Patrick he hadn’t been joking about the bisexual thing. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said belatedly. He realized he was still in his wet clothes, standing dead still in the middle of the cabin, watching Pete change like some kind of freak. He grabbed the zipper of his coat. “But still.”

“You have no case,” Pete said. “Your honor I would like this dismissed.”

“This isn’t court and you aren’t a lawyer,” Patrick muttered. He was down to his regular clothes, now, which were still damp. Fuck the snow, seriously. Pete shook his hair out like a wet dog, sending droplets everywhere. Patrick wiped off his cheek with a scowl and rooted around for clean, comfortable clothes. He wanted to sleep and he wanted to sleep now. 

He tried to ignore Pete’s general presence, because thinking about hot, probably bisexual Pete, who Patrick had been in love with since Sophomore year of college, was enough. Watching him change was a little more than Patrick could handle. 

“Oh, crap,” Pete muttered, just as Patrick had finished dressing in sweats and a very raggedy t-shirt, cursing himself for not picking something less worn. Patrick kicked his damp clothes into a corner and promised himself he would deal with them tomorrow. (He was probably lying.)

“That doesn’t sound good,” Patrick said, but he wasn’t looking at Pete. He was staring at the bed, which somehow looked _smaller_. Patrick was pretty sure it wasn’t actually shrinking and that he was just a mixture of paranoia and irrational hope, but he tried and failed to think of a single way the two of them could sleep in that bed without touching somehow. 

“Well,” Pete said. “The heater isn’t working.”

That got Patrick’s attention. 

“Uh,” he said, feeling a little stupid. “It’s snowing.”

“I’m aware,” Pete said, in a tone of voice that told Patrick he was being very patient. “That does not change the fact that the heater is not working.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Patrick asked. He gestured towards the window, where it was dark, though the porch light shined on the still-falling snow. “I really didn’t sign up for hypothermia.”

“It’s probably just the pilot light,” Pete said. “I’ll check on it tomorrow.”

“And for tonight?” Patrick demanded. Pete shrugged. Patrick kind of hated him. 

“We have blankets,” he said, then smirked. “And body heat.”

“I literally hate you,” Patrick muttered. Pete clapped his hands together twice. 

“Better hurry up,” he said. “Don’t want to die of hypothermia.”

“I _hate_ you,” Patrick emphasized, because he was slightly worried Pete hadn’t heard him the first time. He quickly pulled on a sweatshirt, stretched and loose and faded with the words _B Natural A Capella_ on it. Maybe Patrick was in an a capella group in college. Maybe he wasn’t. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the fact that he was about to crawl into bed _next to Pete Wentz_ and he was supposed to somehow remain composed. 

“Hurry up,” Pete whined, having already crawled in and claimed the side next to the wall. Patrick swallowed hard and nodded, forcing his lead feet to move, step by step, and get into bed, inches from Pete. 

“Goodnight,” he said hoarsely. Pete made a noise Patrick didn’t want to consider too closely. Patrick was tense, shoulders to feet, lying on his side with his back to Pete. He felt like he might actually explode. 

“Goodnight,” Pete said, and Patrick reached up and turned off the lamp, plunging the cabin into complete darkness, acutely aware of Pete breathing behind him and the utter silence around them. 

This was going to be the longest night ever. 

\----

The cabin was still dark when Patrick blearily blinked awake, aware of hot breath on the back of his neck and the fact that he couldn’t feel his nose. It was cold in the cabin, though fairly warm under the blankets, and it took Patrick’s sleep-deprived mind a couple long minutes to remember exactly where he was. 

He sort of froze. The breath on his neck was slow and even and had to be Pete. Pete, who was evidently lying close enough to breathe on Patrick’s neck, and wow, that sent Patrick’s heart rate skyrocketing. 

He told himself not to, but his body was operating on autopilot as he carefully shifted backwards, biting his lip as Pete made a quiet snuffling noise but didn’t wake. Sure enough, he only needed to squirm a little bit before he felt the warm, solid body of Pete pressed all up against his back. 

Patrick gulped down air that was suddenly in short supply. He shifted one more time, completely accidentally, he swore, and froze again when he registered something hard and insistent rubbing against his ass. 

All the blood in Patrick’s body dropped straight to his dick and Patrick closed his eyes and bitterly demanded that he stay still, for fuck’s sake, but his body was well beyond that, and he squirmed backwards--just once, just to see. 

Pete groaned and Patrick froze, breath caught in his chest, wide-eyed and rock fucking hard. He tried his best to not wish Pete would give him a good old fashioned reach around. He was unsuccessful. 

Pete dropped a heavy arm around Patrick’s waist and nuzzled into his neck, clearly waking up. Patrick was acutely aware of Pete’s dick, trapped between their bodies, getting real friendly with Patrick’s ass. 

He was probably hallucinating. That was the most logical conclusion. It had gotten too cold in the cabin and Patrick caught hypothermia and now was violently hallucinating the way Pete’s cock rubbed maddeningly slowly against his ass. That was all this was. 

“Fuck,” Pete said, having evidently woken up. He stopped moving, hard cock still pressed against Patrick’s ass, and Patrick knew he was trying to think of a way out of this situation, fast.

The thing was--and this was totally not a surprise, but whatever--Patrick didn’t really want Pete out of this situation. What he actually wanted was to push Pete onto his back, straddle him, and grind down over and over and over and--

“Are you awake?” Pete asked uncertainly. Patrick didn’t know what to say. _Yes_ , obviously, but he was hoping for something a little more suave and sexy. He wasn’t sure he could make any noise at all besides an undignified grunt, really, but Pete had evidently decided Patrick was asleep and began sliding back slowly. 

Words left Patrick’s mouth a little before he’d actually finished thinking them. 

“Are you hard?” he asked, and immediately wished he was an octopus so he could slap himself eight times in a row. Pete made a weird sound--a sort of strangled gasping noise, and swallowed audibly. His hand was still pressed to Patrick’s stomach. The very tip of his dick was still touching Patrick’s ass. Patrick couldn’t breathe. 

“It’s cold,” Pete said, which was a completely _ludicrous_ answer. If Patrick wasn’t so afraid of breaking physical contact, he would have rolled over to give Pete his best disbelieving look. Pete could lie better than that. Patrick had _taught_ Pete to lie better than that.

“That makes no sense,” Patrick argued, for lack of anything else to say. “Cold doesn’t make you hard. If anything, cold makes you shrink up.”

“I’m different,” Pete said. He sounded a little desperate and a lot like he wished he’d never taken this job. “I get hard. Sorry. I’ll just--”

His hand slid along Patrick’s stomach and Patrick was moving before he could stop himself, grabbing Pete’s wrist and making him freeze. Patrick’s throat was dry, heart pounding so loudly he was surprised he could hear anything over the cacophony. Pete twitched. 

“Wait,” he said uselessly, then swallowed hard. “Well, if you’re cold it makes no sense to move away.”

What was Patrick doing? Why was Patrick like this? He closed his eyes and briefly willed spontaneous combustion into reality. 

“Being close isn’t really what helps, scientifically speaking,” Pete said. He sounded unsure, hesitant--but he hadn’t moved. Patrick burned at every point of contact and worked hard not to shudder. “They always say it’s physical activity that helps with the cold.”

“Oh?” Patrick asked, voice slightly high pitched. He was back to firmly believing this was a hallucination. It was the only explanation. He licked his lips. He felt a little like he was suffocating. “Well, if you’re cold, then. Then maybe we should warm each other up. You know, just to be safe.”

This was stupid. This was the _stupidest_ idea Patrick had _ever_ had and, as he heard Pete’s breath catch, he was about ninety percent positive he’d just destroyed their friendship because his dick made him a little crazy. 

“That makes sense,” Pete said, and Patrick blinked in surprise. “You know, we just gotta keep our heart rates up. And it doesn’t really mean anything.”

“Yeah,” Patrick lied. “It’s just for safety. No homo, and all that.”

“Yeah,” Pete echoed. After the longest few seconds of Patrick’s life, Pete shifted behind him, until he was pressed up against Patrick’s back again, hard, hard cock nestled against Patrick’s ass, so close that if he wasn’t wearing clothes, he was pretty sure it would be between his cheeks, pressed teasingly to his hole. Fuck. 

Patrick let out a slow, shuddering breath as Pete hesitantly slid his hand down Patrick’s stomach, pausing at the waistband of Patrick’s sweats for a long, heartstopping moment. Patrick gulped down air and barely bit back a whine as Pete cautiously worked his hand inside Patrick’s pants and boxers, until his surprisingly warm but dry hand was _touching Patrick’s cock._

Patrick couldn’t help the way his head fell back, pressing into Pete’s shoulder. Pete was breathing fast, frozen, hand around Patrick’s cock, his own cock pushed hard against Patrick’s ass. For a long moment, neither of them did anything, but eventually Patrick couldn’t take it anymore. 

He exhaled hard and took matters into his own hands. His cock was steadily leaking precome, enough so that Pete’s grip wasn’t dry anymore. He worked his hips back in tiny increments, relishing in Pete’s hitched breathing, until Pete got the picture and gave Patrick’s cock a squeeze, making Patrick squirm, which only pushed his ass harder into Pete’s cock. 

Pete groaned, free hand finding Patrick’s hip and squeezing hard, catching a rhythm and grinding his hips and cock into Patrick as he stroked Patrick off. 

Patrick could hardly breathe, he was so overwhelmed. He tried to make it at least okay, tried to work his hips back as best he could, but Pete’s hand on his cock was straight out of every wet dream Patrick had had since he met Pete, and the warmth of Pete’s back and the breath on Patrick’s neck, and the grip on Patrick’s hip and how impossibly hard Pete’s cock felt grinding insistently against him. 

Patrick wished their clothes were gone, wished he was under Pete, or on top of Pete, or _wherever_ with Pete, with Pete’s cock fucking into him over and over, hard and unyeilding, making Patrick gasp and moan and cry out Pete’s name until--

With a strangled sob, Patrick came, Pete’s hand squeezing his cock as Patrick squirmed in place. Patrick gasped for breath, trembling a little, aware of Pete nearly cradling his softening cock and panting into Patrick’s ear. 

His hips hadn’t stopped moving, they were grinding against Patrick’s ass insistently, Pete muttering _fuck, fuck_ under his breath until he froze up and Patrick felt his cock twitch as he must have come. 

Pete sort of collapsed over Patrick after that, hand still down Patrick’s pants, fingers almost stroking through Patrick’s come, which made Patrick shiver. Pete made a satisfied noise into Patrick’s ear and shifted closer, head heavy where he rested his forehead to Patrick’s shoulder, breathing evening out. 

For his part, despite Pete clearly satisfied and falling back to sleep, Patrick could hardly breathe, eyes wide and staring into darkness, aware of Pete’s heat and touch and _fuck._

Fuck.

Patrick was so goddamn fucked. 

\-----

“I will pay,” Pete grunted. “One million dollars to never see another pink sparkly heart again. Where did they find this many pink sparkly hearts? This violates my constitutional rights.”

“The fuck it does,” Patrick muttered. He felt tense, felt like his skin was stretched too tight over his bones, felt like crawling up the wall with the deep discomfort he felt being just feet from Pete, holding up the aforementioned garland of pink, sparkly hearts that Joe had written _pls hang?? :(_ on their first chore list. 

Pete was on a precariously balanced ladder, half in the sheet of snow, half on the path, leaning awkwardly to get the garland hung before the snow started up again. Patrick, in order to prevent himself from staring at the curve of Pete’s ass in his jeans, looked down at the heart garland in his hand.

Oh, right. It was February. His favorite holiday ever was coming up. Because being hopelessly in love for four years and watching his crush make a fool out of himself over different girls every year was _totally fun_. Patrick’s favorite, in fact. 

He adjusted the garland with a sigh. He never expected to be spending Valentine’s Day with Pete, without potential girlfriends around, alone in a cabin in the mountains that they had _had sex in_.

“Yo!” Pete said, snapping his fingers. Patrick jerked and nearly dropped the paper hearts into the snow. Heart pounding from that near-mishap, he looked up at Pete, scowling a little. 

“What?” he bitched. “I’m cold.”

“Well, if you paid attention,” Pete huffed, gesturing for another couple feet of the garland and leaning way too far to hang it. “We’re almost done. The last of the heart-related decorations for the zero guests we have staying.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. Pete grunted, reaching down blindly for the last of the hearts and climbing to the very top of the ladder to hang it. 

“That’s not a great plan,” Patrick said cautiously, eyes on the bottom of the ladder, where one half was sinking into the snow. Pete made an unidentifiable sound. “Like, super not great. We can’t really get off the mountain if you break your face.”

“Admit it,” Pete said, sliding down the ladder like he thought he was a hot firefighter or something. Patrick tried not to imagine _that_ too clearly. Pete landed in the snow with a _crunch_ , straightening out his coat and flashing Patrick a wicked smile. “I am fearless.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. He reached to help fold the ladder back up and slide it back into the shed before sighing. “Guess we better see what’s next.”

“When is the storm supposed to let up?” Pete asked, out of nowhere. He was looking down at Patrick’s van, squinting, clearly thinking. Patrick couldn’t see anything of interest in or around the van, so he frowned. 

“I’m not sure,” he said, unable to help the skepticism in his voice. Pete was wearing Patrick’s least favorite expression. His I-Am-Planning-Something expression. Nothing good ever happened when Pete had that expression. “Why?”

Pete smirked. Patrick felt a little uneasy.

“Valentine’s Day, my sweet summer child,” he said. He jerked his head towards the car. “If the snow lets up, one of us can go into town and drag all the booze they can carry back up here. We’re alone in the mountains on Valentine’s Day. Why not get shitfaced and have fun?”

Have fun? Was Patrick imagining it or were the very tips of Pete’s ears a dusty pink? Pete was definitely avoiding his eyes, though, looking down at the car and then back up at the cabins as he huffed out a breath that fluttered his damp bangs where they stuck out of his beanie. Pete shifted from foot to foot, shoving his hands in his coat pockets while Patrick tried to remember how he was supposed to form words.

“We might want to also think about food,” he pointed out hoarsely, and immediately felt like an idiot. He swallowed hard, cleared his voice. “Keep up our energy. For fun shit.”

Pete was looking at him with an expression Patrick rarely saw from him. It was one of the few Patrick hadn’t expertly dissected over four years, one that came out and managed to surprise Patrick every time. A long moment later, and Pete grinned, looking almost genuine. 

“Yeah,” he said, and Patrick’s heart skipped a beat. “For fun shit.”

\----

Patrick didn’t know what he expected. 

During the day, they were themselves: joking around, being best friends, doing the various odd jobs around the lodge to keep it operational. They teased each other and ate all meals together and enjoyed the quiet and solitude and everything was just fine. 

By night, well. That was a different story. 

Pete’s cock was hard in Patrick’s mouth. Their heater was still broken but it felt like it was boiling in the cabin, or maybe that was just Patrick. He was drunk on the feeling of Pete pulling his hair, the sound of his desperate noises, the way his own hard cock rubbed against the sheets, and the salty-bitter taste of Pete’s steadily leaking precome. 

He tongued the slit and Pete made a choked noise, hips moving, thrusting shallowly into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick couldn’t help but moan even with Pete’s cock in his mouth—Pete made noises straight out of Patrick’s wet dreams, noises Patrick wanted to commit to memory once they either left this job or it turned warmer and they didn’t have this...excuse. 

Not that this excuse was viable. 

Okay, maybe everything wasn’t actually just fine. 

It had been a week since they got here, and it was a week of nightly sex under this flimsy pretense of being cold—Patrick wasn’t stupid, he knew very well that he was Pete’s little bisexual experiment. He just didn’t know how low he was willing to go just for a scrap of Pete’s attention. 

Pete’s cock hit the back of his throat and he choked a little, pulling off to give Pete a couple strokes and look up at him. His head was thrown back, dark eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, and he was biting his lip. A gorgeous flush had settled over him, across his cheeks and down his chest. His nipples were dark and stiff and Patrick reached a hand up to touch one.

Pete gasped, eyes flying open, and looked down at him. His pupils were blown. Patrick wondered if maybe this was too much. 

“God,” Pete said. His voice was _wrecked_ , like it had been him giving head for the better part of a half hour. Patrick licked the tip of Pete’s cock, still in his hand, and it twitched. “You were born to suck cock.”

“I don’t think that’s the complement you think it is,” Patrick said. Pete squirmed as Patrick gave his cock a squeeze. “You haven’t given me head. What happened to being open to try it?”

The words were hardly out of Patrick’s mouth when Pete tugged him to his feet and tackled him backwards, onto the bed. Patrick cracked his head on something hard—the wall, maybe, or the bedpost—but he didn’t care because Pete’s fingernails were digging into his hips and his mouth—his warm, wet, glorious mouth—was wrapped around Patrick’s cock with a high, greedy sound.

It was sloppy. It was sloppy and eager and unpracticed, but it was _good_. It was so good. It was good because it was _Pete_ and if nothing else was a sign that Patrick was making a huge mistake, it was that thought, but Patrick was too far gone. 

He felt teeth and bucked, not even sure if it was pleasure or surprise, but the noise Pete made when he choked was unbelievably hot and Patrick shuddered all over. Sweat was pooling in the small of his back, and the air, as he gulped huge breaths of it, was heavy and hot, the cabin warm from them alone with no need for a heater. 

Pete had probably never done this before. That thought was running through his head, over and over, as he gasped and moaned and clutched helplessly at the sheets. Pete had probably never done this before and here he was, doing it with Patrick, and it was damn hard to remember that this wasn’t a _thing_ , that it meant nothing, that Pete wasn’t in love with Patrick like Patrick was in love with Pete. 

Pete hummed around Patrick’s cock and Patrick shouted, back arching as he came in Pete’s mouth, and, as he panted, splayed out and sticky on the bed, he realized he was, in every sense of the word, playing with fire. 

Fire just happened to be, in this case, only a couple inches taller than Patrick, with smooth, dark, tattooed skin, and eyes Patrick wanted to write poetry about. And Patrick didn’t even write poetry!

The point was this, he thought, as Pete gasped and came across Patrick’s stomach, one drop landing on Patrick’s lips. The point was Patrick was _fucked_.

——

“Oh man,” Pete groaned dramatically. “I am not made for manual labor.”

“Baby,” Patrick muttered. He was trying really hard to not look at the pull of Pete’s thin white t-shirt across his broad shoulders, but he wasn’t being very successful. 

Christ. He was a deranged romance writer in the making, he was sure of it. He picked up a paintbrush with determination and stepped up onto the step stool.

“Nice ass—I mean work,” Pete cracked, and Patrick rolled his eyes. He made quick work of the peeling trim and, as he stepped back down and looked at it critically, it did look pretty good.

“One down,” Patrick said. “A million to go.”

“Not a _million_ ,” Pete protested. “Be positive.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. “Nine hundred thousand.”

“That’s the spirit,” Pete said, and leapt onto the step stool in a way that would probably give any OSHA worker in a five mile radius a heart attack. “Watch my back, I think the ghost is up here.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Patrick said, glancing out the window. The snow was thick on the ground, an untouched blanket that was only disturbed by two sets of footprints, his and Pete’s. He didn’t focus on them, didn’t want to give the evil romance writer living in his brain and stealing all his oxytocin any ammunition like how well their footprints matched and how they clearly walked at the same pace. Or how soon Valentine’s Day was. Or about the alcohol they did manage to get waiting in their cabin. Or about what, exactly, constituted _fun shit_ and whether or not it involved touching every inch of Pete’s skin.

That would be _ridiculous_ , which is why Patrick definitely wasn’t thinking about it.

In fact, he wasn’t thinking about it so much he turned his attention back to the work they were doing, checking one item out of twenty off a list while they still had no guests. At least this was meaningful work. Not tons of paper hearts they’d just have to take down in a few days. He grabbed a rag and started wiping at the water spots on the window, so the view of the forest and _not_ their footprints would be seen better. 

“Ah, Patrick!” Pete gasped dramatically, leaping off the step ladder onto the plastic-covered bed, arm thrown over his eyes like a lady from 1889 who’d fainted. “The ghost! I could hardly complete my work!”

“Are we _absolutely sure_ you’re twenty three?” Patrick asked skeptically. “Did you falsify your birth certificate to get into college? It’s okay, you can tell me. This is a safe space.”

“Is it?” Pete said, grinning in a way Patrick could only call wicked, before he reached out, lightning quick, and grabbed Patrick’s arm, giving him a strong tug so that Patrick collapsed on the bed beside Pete without even an ounce of grace. 

“What the fuck,” he complained, and Pete smirked, dropping his other arm from across his face. The plastic underneath them rustled. This close—which was closer than Patrick was trying to see Pete, considering their nighttime activities—Patrick could see a line of stray paint above his eyebrow, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. His eyes were bright and hair was a disaster and Patrick was so in love with him he could hardly stand it.

“We’re taking a break,” Pete said. Patrick rolled his eyes, trying to calm his heart, which had taken off like a racehorse at that realization. He tried to sit up but Pete tugged him back down a little, the light tussling making the plastic slide a little underneath them. 

“You don’t need a break,” Patrick informed Pete haughtily. “You’ve barely done work.”

“Ouch,” Pete said, but he was still smirking. “If that’s the way you’re gonna talk to me, I better shut you up.”

“Try it,” Patrick invited, not quite knowing what he was inviting, and, quicker than his sluggish brain could comprehend, Pete leaned across the small distance between them and pressed their lips together. 

Patrick gasped and Pete took advantage, deepening the kiss, strong, confident tongue making a home in Patrick’s mouth, painting every inch in Pete’s taste. Patrick gasped again and made a helpless noise, kissing back, eyes slipping closed and surrendering to the slow slide of their lips, his racing heart, the sharp smell of Pete’s cologne mixed with sweat, the feel of that too-thin white t-shirt under his hands. 

Pete rolled over, dragging Patrick on top of him without breaking their kiss, spilling unheard secrets into Patrick that Patrick couldn’t comprehend. Pete’s stubble scraped across Patrick’s cheeks and Patrick groaned, cock taking an interest in the proceedings. 

They broke apart, gasping, just inches from each other. Pete’s eyes were wide and dark and blown, and Patrick licked his slightly swollen lips, relishing in how Pete’s gaze snapped to his mouth immediately.

“See?” Pete managed, sounding strangled. “I can shut you up.”

“My turn,” Patrick said, almost before Pete had finished talking, and kissed him again. 

Pete’s hands tangled in Patrick’s hair and Patrick held on for dear life. 

——

“We saw this place and it seemed perfect!” the woman gushed. Patrick nodded mutely, because he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to say anything besides _it’s one in the morning you assholes_. “I know we’re a bit late—”

“Early, technically,” the man said, then laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world. (It wasn’t.)

“But you know, every couple deserves a romantic getaway, even if the relationship is new,” the woman finished. Patrick arched an eyebrow. “New” was one way to describe their rambling, probably partially drunk story about meeting at the bar that night and knowing they were soulmates. “Ill-advised” was another, but Patrick wasn’t exactly the one to preach about healthy relationships, given that he’d fucked Pete last night so hard the bedpost put a hole in the wall. 

But that was irrelevant. 

“Right,” Pete said. He actually sounded like a human. Patrick wouldn’t go so far as to call him professional, but he at least lacked the disdain Patrick knew was in his own voice. “Well, considering the hour and the time of year, we have very little availability.”

Patrick caught a glance of the computer screen that only they could see. _0% occupied_ was written in green across the top. He tried not to laugh. 

“That’s fine,” the woman said, way too cheerfully for—Patrick checked—one twenty two in the morning. “A beautiful lodge like this? I’m surprised you’re not booked up full for the special day tomorrow.”

Patrick looked at her blankly. The special day? What in the fuck was _the special day_ that was allegedly happening tomorrow? Patrick gave his brain a shake. Nothing rattled around. The troll that guarded his memories grunted unhappily at the hour and the cold. In other words, Patrick was useless. 

“It’s your lucky day,” Pete said. “We do have one available. It’s smaller than our other cabins, though.”

“It’s okay,” the man said, fixing the girl with a truly sickening love struck look. “We’re in a lovely location for Valentine’s Day—it’ll give us inspiration to plan our wedding.”

Ah.

Fuck.

The special day. Patrick had somehow forgotten what _the special day_ was. 

It was Valentine’s Day. Despite the hearts everywhere on the property that he had been seeing every single day for fourteen days, he’d forgotten that tomorrow was the bane of his existence. 

Patrick _hated_ Valentine’s Day, and it wasn’t even because of Pete. Much. It was because it was a corporate and capitalism sponsored holiday that promoted spending money to prove your love for someone and the pressure it put on people was unreal. That was why. 

Not because he imagined snuggling up with Pete Valentine’s night, and Pete kissing him, and Pete maybe pulling out a ring—

“We’ll walk you to your cabin,” Pete said, and Patrick snapped back to reality. He stood when the rest stood, following them mutely as he thought long and fucking hard about the fact that he and Pete had been sleeping together for fourteen days with no talks of slowing down, and their heater was _fixed_ and what the fuck were they doing?

“Have a nice night,” Pete said, waving. Patrick vaguely realized they were at the smallest (and shittiest) cabin, the closest to the lobby and furthest from theirs. “Let us know if you need anything.”

“We’ve been here for fourteen days,” Patrick blurted out as soon as the door closed. It was all he could think about. Pete gave him an odd look, carefully taking Patrick’s elbow and steering him up the hill, back towards their own cabin. 

“Yes,” Pete said slowly once Patrick had tried and failed to say anything else. “We have. Is there a point to this realization?”

Patrick took a shuddering breath of frigid middle-of-the-night mountain winter air, folding his arms despite his coat. Their boots crunched on the snow as they walked, Patrick’s mind racing. 

The point. Was there a point to that? Was there something Patrick actually wanted to say in real life to Pete about their two weeks of mind blowing sex?

Patrick stopped dead. Pete walked a few more steps before realizing Patrick wasn’t following and turning back with a confused expression. Patrick couldn’t blame him. They were only a couple yards from their cabin, their _warm_ cabin, but Patrick didn’t know if he could physically move his feet from the snow covered path. 

His breath was visible in the dim lighting of the cabin’s front porch lights, and, above them, the moon was bright as it cut through the trees. He was frozen, staring helplessly at Pete, who was looking more and more concerned. 

“Patrick?” Pete asked hesitantly. “Are you okay? Are you having a stroke? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

“You’re not in love with me,” Patrick said. Pete’s eyes widened and he took an actual step back, clearly surprised. He looked around them—the lodge remained deserted outside—then looked back at Patrick, opening his mouth and closing it several times as he clearly tried to figure out something to say.

“What?” he finally managed, sounding a bit high pitched. “Where did that come from?”

“You’ve been having sex with me,” Patrick said. “I mean, _we’ve_ been having sex. For fourteen days. But not because you’re in love with me.”

“Uh,” Pete said. He seemed just as unable to move as Patrick, staring at him with wide eyes, breath also visible. Pete’s breathing was fast, like he was panicking a little. “Are—are you saying you’re in love with me?”

“I didn’t say that,” Patrick said instantly. “I’m not.”

It sounded like the lie it was. 

Pete shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, looking very much like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. He fussed with the buttons on his coat before Patrick managed to wrangle together enough brain cells to speak.

“It was just at night,” he said, voice hoarse. “It was just at night, and that was fine, but then, you kissed me. You kissed me in the empty cabin, in the middle of the day, like it was a _thing_ we did, Pete. Why did you do that?”

“Did you not want me to?” Pete asked. Patrick groaned.

“Not what I asked,” he said. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes!” Pete said loudly, then flinched and glanced toward their singular guest. They didn’t come back outside so Pete focused his attention back onto Patrick. “But I don’t know where any of this is coming from. I thought we had a casual thing going. If you caught feelings, it’s kind of your responsibility to tell me.”

“I did not _catch feelings_ ,” Patrick snapped. “That is not what I was saying! If it’s casual for you, why did you kiss me?”

“I don’t know, Patrick!” Pete said, throwing his arms up. “I don’t know what answer you want from me. I don’t know what you’re asking me! Can you _please_ be straightforward!”

“Straightforward?” Patrick demanded. “How much more straightforward can I get? I am asking if we are in a relationship!”

“No!” Pete said. Patrick’s heart plunged down, into the pit his stomach had become, and he stared at Pete, dry mouthed. Pete sighed, scrubbing his gloved hand across his face. “Look, Patrick—”

“We’re we having sex just so you could, like, prove your bisexuality?” Patrick asked, dread in every word. “Is that all I was good for?”

“No, Patrick,” Pete said, sounding a little frantic. “No, you’re my best friend, you mean the world to me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Patrick whispered.

“Patrick—”

Patrick didn’t stay to let Pete finish, just turned tail and ran, directionless, cold wind cutting through him like knives. 

—-

This was dumb. This was a dumb, teenage response to learning that Pete didn’t like him like that, and Patrick was realizing that with every step he ran into the forest. He was panting, throat burning with the icy air, feet crunching on the snow. He slid every so often, grappling desperately with balance, and he couldn’t tell if the moisture on his face was melting snow or tears.

What had he expected? Honestly, what had he expected? That Pete had secret, buried emotions just waiting for Patrick to find? That something so _clearly_ casual could have been anything more? Honestly, Patrick Martin Stump, what had he been _thinking_?

“You were in love,” a voice said, and Patrick shouted and whirled around, sliding on the ice and snow until he fell hard onto his ass. He gasped for breath, the silence of the forest around him almost deafeningly loud as he searched frantically for _whoever the fuck had spoken_. 

“What?” he said dumbly. The forest did not respond.

A hallucination. It had to be a hallucination. Patrick was stressed and emotional and that was the only valid explanation.

Chest heaving and breathing hard, Patrick carefully pushed himself to his feet and glanced around. 

He recognized nothing. That was what he got for running blindly into the forest in the middle of the night, he guessed, but he was starting to get cold and he didn’t know where to begin to try and get back to the lodge. 

“Okay,” he breathed, beginning to shiver. “Which way?”

“I can help you with that,” the same voice said. Patrick flinched, losing his tenuous foothold on the snow and falling flat on his ass again. He grunted, breath knocked out of him, a jolt going up his spine. 

He looked around again, the snow cold, making his clothes damp and his ass freeze. His breath was suddenly much more visible, which was weird considering the thick cover of trees mostly blocked out the moon and he was in the middle of the forest with no other light source around except—

“Oh holy _shit_!” Patrick yelped, voice cracking embarrassingly, and he tried to scramble to his feet and fucking _run_ , but he slipped again, landing painfully on his elbow. He glanced behind him at what he, honest to God, could only describe as an actual. Fucking. Ghost.

“Oh, you’re panicking, aren’t you,” the ghost said fretfully. Patrick tried to stand again and the ghost rushed to stop him. “No, no, why don’t—why don’t we just talk down there, yeah?”

“I’m hallucinating,” Patrick said numbly, squeezing his eyes shut. “I fell and hit my head and I am now violently hallucinating. This isn’t real. None of this is real.”

“Yeah,” the ghost said. “Unfortunately it’s real. You’re fine. Don’t panic.”

“ _Don’t_ panic?” Patrick demanded, opening his eyes back up to glare at the ghost. It looked like a kid, like maybe eighteen, with messy hair and the build of a skeleton. It was also bright fucking white, no color whatsoever, just a...white shape of what Patrick assumed used to be a person. “I am talking to a ghost and you want me to not panic?”

“That would be ideal,” the ghost said. Patrick stared at…it. The ghost sighed--or at least, Patrick was pretty sure it was sighing--before floating down closer to Patrick, who tensed up. “Relax.”

“You’re really not good at advice,” Patrick said numbly. He didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t know _why he was talking_. Everything was beyond weird at this point and he was two seconds away from squeezing his eyes shut and muttering _there’s no place like home_ over and over until the madness stopped. 

“Well, what did you expect,” the ghost said, sounding annoyed. It crossed it’s ghost arms and gave Patrick a look that Patrick could somehow decipher perfectly despite the ghost being almost too bright to look at. “I’m eighteen.”

“Eighteen,” Patrick repeated faintly. 

“Yeah,” the ghost said. “Or, like, I was. Okay. How about we start over?”

“I think I might be in a coma,” Patrick said. 

“My name is Brendon,” the ghost said, ignoring Patrick’s slow descent into madness. “I’m the resident ghost. I died about, uh, twenty years ago? In the eighties.”

_This is normal,_ Patrick thought hysterically. 

“I’ve been watching you,” Brendon said, and Patrick turned bright red, the heat of embarrassment burning up his cheeks and ears. Brendon seemed to notice and quickly backtracked. “No! Not...not in your cabin. Just when you’re, like, working. Anyway, the point is you’re in love with him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Patrick lied. “And I’m cold.”

“Yeah, alright,” Brendon said dismissively, floating closer. He--Patrick was pretty sure Brendon was a he, though he could have been wrong-- waved a translucent hand between them. Patrick stared. “Anyway, the point is you’re in love with your friend. Pete. You’re in _love_ with him. Are you following?”

“How do you know?” Patrick asked, giving up the pretense. He was too tired and too cold to pretend any longer. He wanted to go back in time and stop himself from ever saying anything to Pete. From ever letting Pete put his hands on him, for ever coming with Pete’s name on his lips and cock hard inside him. 

“I’m a ghost,” Brendon said. “I know everything.”

That didn’t seem right, but it wasn’t like _Patrick_ could correct him. Patrick was, thankfully, not a ghost. He was pretty sure Brendon would know a hell of a lot more about ghosts than Patrick did. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Patrick said, shoulders slumping. He ran a hand through his damp hair tiredly and closed his eyes for a long moment. His head was starting to hurt. He should have put his glasses on before checking the guests in and ruining his life. “He doesn’t feel the same.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brendon said. Patrick looked up at him in disbelief. 

“Really?” he asked. “Because I’m like ninety percent sure he literally just said that to me like ten minutes ago.”

“That’s _not_ what he said,” Brendon said, clearly putting on a mysterious air. Patrick rolled his eyes and Brendon groaned. “Look. You heard what you thought you heard.”

“That makes zero sense,” Patrick said. “You make zero sense, are you aware of that?”

“He _said_ you weren’t in a relationship,” Brendon said impatiently. He definitely sounded like the teenager he was. Used to be? “That doesn’t automatically mean he doesn’t love you.”

“Uh,” Patrick said. “He had the opportunity to tell me that. He didn’t tell me that. What other conclusion was I supposed to draw?”

“You could have just waited,” Brendon suggested. Patrick scowled. “Look, I’m just saying you _could_ have gotten clarification, but instead you ran into the woods like a moron.”

“How did you die?” Patrick asked. “I want to reenact it.”

“You’re not listening,” Brendon said. 

“Oh, I’m listening,” Patrick snapped. He was beginning to shiver, the cold was really setting in, and he was starting to worry his ass was going to freeze to the ground. He hauled himself to his feet, fruitlessly trying to brush the snow off of him. He faced Brendon, who looked unimpressed. “You’re either delusional or messing with me, and neither one helps me. I need to get back to the lodge so I can get the fuck out.”

“And leave Pete behind?” Brendon asked, arching an eyebrow. Patrick froze. “You hadn’t thought of that.”

Patrick hadn’t, but he didn’t admit it. He just stared blankly at Brendon until the ghost sighed and rolled his ghostly eyes. It was beginning to trip Patrick out. 

“I’m just saying,” he said. “That maybe you and Pete could, I don’t know, _talk_ to each other? About your feelings? That was probably what you should have done to begin with, not that I’m judging you.”

“Oh, no,” Patrick said dryly. He was still shivering. “You’ve been one hundred percent non judgemental.”

“Thanks!” Brendon said. “Alright, I’ll show you the way. But don’t go running off until you hear Pete out.”

“If Pete talks,” Patrick said. “I’ll listen.”

“Trick?” a voice that sounded suspiciously like Pete’s said from behind him. “Who are you talking to?”

\---

Patrick looked desperately at Brendon, who smirked before wiggling his fingers at Patrick and _vanishing_ , the complete and utter _asshole_. Patrick should have gotten Brendon’s last name so he could find his grave and _spit on it_.

“Nobody,” he answered belatedly, not looking at Pete. “The ghost. What do you want?”

“To talk,” Pete said, voice pleading. “Just to talk. I didn’t get to explain anything, and what I said came off wrong and then you ran off into the dark woods _alone_ and--look. Can we just talk?”

Patrick forced every muscle in his body to cooperate, to work in tandem so he could turn and face Pete with apprehension. 

Pete looked beyond worried, hair wild, biting his lip, gorgeous, honey colore--his eyes wide and pupils blown. Patrick swallowed, suddenly feeling like he was burning up where he was freezing just seconds ago.

“It was my fault,” he said, somehow managing to speak past a dry throat and frozen tongue. He couldn’t take his eyes off Pete, not for a second. His heart hurt. “I pushed too far, took things too personally.”

“But you didn’t, though,” Pete rushed to explain, barely letting Patrick finish talking, like he had to get the words out before he exploded. “You didn’t, that was a totally logical question, and it was totally valid that you asked it because we’ve fucked, like, a million times--”

“Sixteen,” Patrick corrected, before he could help himself. Pete gave him a surprised look and Patrick flushed hot. “What? I’m a lists guy.”

“And I fucked up the answer,” Pete continued, evidently choosing to ignore Patrick’s weak excuse. “I was surprised and thrown and tired and I fucked up the answer.”

“You did?” Patrick whispered. His voice was barely audible, even though the forest surrounding them was eerily quiet and still. Pete took a step toward Patrick, boots crunching impossibly loudly in the silence. 

“I did,” Pete said, matching Patrick’s tone, whether purposefully or not, Patrick didn’t know. He did find himself listing towards Pete almost, like Pete was the sun and Patrick was just a planet caught in his gravity. “I fucked it all up. Can I start again? Can _we_ start that conversation again?”

Patrick licked his numb lips, unable to look away from Pete’s nearly painfully earnest expression. He looked hopeful and broken all at once, like he wanted one answer but expected another. Patrick’s breath was caught in his chest, pressing on his lungs as he tried to speak.

“Start over?” he asked, and Pete nodded hesitantly. “Oh. Okay.”

“Okay,” Pete echoed. Neither of them spoke right away, just spent a few moments staring at each other like they couldn’t quite believe the other was there. After a wait that felt like centuries, Patrick finally spoke. 

“You were walking away from me,” he said. His voice was horribly hoarse. “And I was following you, lost in my own head.”

Pete nodded, taking a step towards Patrick, closing the distance between them, inch by inch. Patrick copied his movements. 

“And then you asked the question I’d been asking myself,” Pete said. “Though in different words.”

“What did I ask?” Patrick managed. With every heartbeat they’d inched closer and closer across the snow-covered, icy forest floor, eyes wide and nearly unblinking as they stared at each other. Pete swallowed audibly, Adam's apple bobbing, and Patrick felt his stomach flutter. 

“You asked if I was in love with you,” Pete said. “The answer in my head was immediate and clear and I opened my mouth and I don’t know, there was this disconnect, and I was spiraling wildly.”

“What was it?” Patrick whispered. They were inches apart now, practically sharing breath, not quite touching yet but vibrating with the need to. Patrick’s skin burned where he imagined Pete’s pressed against it. “The answer. The immediate and clear answer.”

Pete sighed shakily and his hands shook as he lifted them to gently cradle Patrick’s face. 

“Yes,” he said. “The answer was yes, in every language that exists. Yes, I am in love with you, Patrick Stump.”

Patrick kissed him. 

There were no fireworks. There were no tingles down his spine or beats skipping in his heart. There was no perfection, no happily ever after. Pete’s teeth were awkward and uncomfortable, their noses clashed, and Pete had clearly been mainlining coffee. 

Patrick didn’t want to be anywhere else ever again, kissing anyone else on Earth. The man under the clothes he was grasping, the man making breathy groans into his mouth as Patrick deepened the kiss with a quick flick of his tongue, the man who agreed to Patrick’s ridiculous plan to begin with--that was the man Patrick wanted to wake up next to every day for the rest of his life. That man, and no one else. 

“Wait,” Pete gasped, and, with a force that rivaled Hercules, pulled away from Patrick’s mouth, ignoring Patrick’s unhappy noise. “You never answered my question.”

“Your question?” Parick asked, confused. Pete nodded. 

“Are you in love with me?” he asked.

“You’re a moron,” Patrick said, and muffled Pete’s giggles with his own lips. 

\----

Pete and Patrick were stopped from their journey back to their cabin (and from what Patrick suspected was going to be an outstanding round of sex, not that he was eager or anything) by their late night guests, who’d checked in not two hours ago. 

Patrick blinked and stared, watching the man and woman hastily throw belongings into the car, an expression of terror on both their faces. The man looked up and caught Patrick’s gaze, scrambling up the slope and thrusting the key in Patrick’s face.

“Checking out,” he wheezed, and Patrick frowned, exchanging and confused look with Pete. 

“Okay,” Pete said slowly. “Why?”

The man shook a little, glancing around with wide eyes before leaning in.

“Hotel’s haunted,” he managed. “Hotel’s very haunted. Ghost knows all your secrets. Gotta leave. You should too.”

The man didn’t wait around any longer, slipping and sliding back to the car and peeling out of the driveway, tires spinning on the slush and gravel. 

Patrick lasted five seconds before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter, doubling over as he tried to catch his breath between giggles, tears leaking from his eyes. 

“That was weird,” Pete said. Patrick laughed harder. “I thought Joe said the ghost was a joke? What are you laughing at?”

Patrick groped for Pete’s hand and squeezed it, turning his face into Pete’s shoulder for a moment. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said breathlessly. “Take me back to our cabin and fuck the life out of me.”

“That sounds like a solid plan,” Pete agreed. He glanced back at the lobby, then turned to Patrick with a near-wicked grin. “Hey. Trick.”

“What,” Patrick said warily. Pete’s grin grew.

“Will you be my Valentine?”

Legends say there are two ghosts at the Waterfall Lodge now.

**Author's Note:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com
> 
> they're such morons honestly


End file.
